


Where the Wild Things Are

by Dreadful Weather Today (TearoomSaloon)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Dark, Dream Sequence, F/M, Gore, Horror, but not enough to warrant a serious warning, loudly implied cannibalism, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-19 00:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1448737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearoomSaloon/pseuds/Dreadful%20Weather%20Today
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His words were honey sweet and his voice was smooth. He was King of the Wild Things and she had no way out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Wild Things Are

**Author's Note:**

> Sit back and relax while I ruin your childhood.

                                                   

 

            Words echoed in her mind. Whether they were a creation of her own imagination or actual syllables bellowed in anger, she could no longer remember. They reverberated, crushing against her ribs, calling through her chest, her throat, sneaking up her spine and shivering over her skin, prickling from her neck to her toes. They stung a bit, worried her. The sentence was so childish it shouldn’t bother her.

            But it did.

            She hid deeper under her sheets, blocking the moonlight from her eyelids. Her stomach was protesting the lack of dinner, begging her to put her bare feet on the cool wood and descend the creaking stairs to the bitter kitchen with the marble tiles and humming appliances. Just one slice of bread, just one apple, just one stale, soggy french fry. She curled tighter in response.

            She rolled over after what felt like an hour. Her toes were icy and sockless, fingers numb in the winter chill. Hadn’t she turned up the thermostat? No matter, wasn’t important right now.

            The sheets twisted all around her body she was so restless. So sleepless. She threw the duvet from her abdomen and sat up in a room that was not her own. It looked the same but it felt wrong, as though everything had been moved several inches to the right. She nearly sighed and turned over without catching sight of the saplings sprouting from her floor. They were growing quickly, green limbs reaching out to hug the walls, the furniture, the door. She sucked in a breath and scrambled from her bed.

            The carpet was grassy. The distinct feeling of dusty, powdery dirt coated the soles of her feet, creeping between her toes. She shuddered and took her robe from a rapidly fading bedpost, shrugging fleece onto bare shoulders. The walls were disappearing to the outer world, which was no longer a scrubby, gangly wood, but a sprawling forest. That was when the creatures approached.

            They lumbered up to her, towering far over her head, far over where her ceiling had once been. Terrible things with gnashing teeth and knife-like claws and throaty roars and flickering yellow eyes. They were shaped like birds and lions and wolves and goats and bulls and bears, all tall, all terrible. She could only stare in response to their howls and growls and snickers.

            The largest one, with horns of the devil and a grin of spikes, approached her. In a commanding voice, it spoke. “We are the wild things, and our King wants to speak with you.”

            She took a step back, stumbling against a bed that was no longer behind her. A choked sound escaped her lungs. What could their king be like if this were not he? He was colossal, no doubt, maybe with bigger horns and more terrible fangs. Did she have a choice?

            “If you don’t come,” the thing continued, “we will carry you across the sea and to the land of our King ourselves.”

            There was no point arguing if the outcome was the same. She couldn’t run from these things; they were too big and too quick. They would catch her and drag her away.

            She nodded. “I don’t have shoes.”

            “The jungle won’t hurt you if you do as we say.”

            She followed the wild things down the sloping hill that had been her front yard, passed the rocky patch that was her driveway, where she parked her father’s mustang every night. The ground was soft beneath her heels, even across brambles and stones. They walked for ages, the light of the moon constantly darting in and out of the undergrowth, the canopy becoming thicker and thicker with each step away from home. The noises of the sea rumbled through the thick jungle, hanging on the hot air.

            Eventually the trees began to thin, untamed grass and crumbling dirt giving away to clumpy, grainy sand. A ship was moored on the shore, its bow rising high over where the sky kissed the earth, covering the stars with great white mainsheets and looming masts. They lifted her up onto the deck and clambered around the ship. They pushed until the hull was free of her sandy prison, jeering and hollering as they too climbed aboard and let out the sails, setting a course across the wide ocean that had never before existed.

            The sea was vicious and wrathful, but their ship was untouched in the gathering storms beyond the coast. Though time felt like hours, the moon never sank from his position on the zenith, always watching the journey of the wild things. Her body swayed with the motion of the waves, mind racing and fuzzy in the seemingly endless trip. She had been utterly fine and calm and sane before going to bed that evening and was quite sure she hadn’t been slipped a hallucinogen, which only confused her more. The world around her was too vivid, too sharp, the smells earthy and natural and whole.

            She drifted to sleep against a mast and was jolted awake when the ship reached shore. The air here was different somehow, stronger and fresher. The trees had wider, thicker leaves and the foliage was unkempt and unruly, spreading out in all directions, encroaching on the land of the beach. One of the wild things scooped her up and placed her gently on the scruffy sand. They began through the underbrush at once.

            Her entourage was loud and excited as they continued to the home of their king. As their cries of glee grew, her fears snuck back into her thoughts. She was now reluctant she had not thrown herself off the boat into the open water to be gobbled up by a great sea monster. Anything sounded more pleasant than meeting their king.

            He did not live in a castle, this king of theirs. He did not live in a house or a palace or even a hut. He sat upon a wild throne of leaves and stones, one hand holding a mighty scepter, the other holding his jawbone. He didn’t look bored, but he didn’t look amused, and his eyes watched everything that occurred within view. His lips were pursed like they always were, and his foot tapped at the ground without a shoe.

            She was stunned at the sight and fell silent at his image. Blinked once, twice, and rubbed her eyes. The King of the Wild Things was no wild thing at all.

            “Hello there, Alana dear.”

            His words froze her, made her body ice. After his enraged voice had ricocheted around her ribcage for hours, his timber dripped off his tongue like honey smothered on biscuits.

            “Hannibal.”

            He smiled down at her, expression melting into charm and exuberance. “You’ve arrived just in time for the party.”

            She narrowed her eyes. “Party?”

            “Yes. I am hosting a dinner party.” He turned to the wild things while addressing her, glaring. “Did you not get the invitation?”

            “It passed me by, I’m afraid.”

            “No matter. You aren’t dressed, but that can be fixed. Would you like to wear red or blue?”

            “Blue…”

            He stepped off his throne, descending to stand beside her. As he removed her robe, her nightclothes shimmered into a sapphire gown, rich and beautiful. It was short, like a cocktail dress, but elegant, cut in Hannibal’s preferred style. He removed his cape, his white ensemble changing into a blue suit with white pinstripes, classic and tasteful.

            “You are my guest of honor, Alana, sweet. Now you present the part.”

            The look in his eyes made her shiver.

            The tables lined the clearing in the jungle, the space presenting as a fabulous dining room instead of a wild, untamed landscape. The wild things had vanished, replaced by sophisticated ladies and well-tailored gentlemen. Music played, but from where, she was uncertain. The air wasn’t so stiff now, carrying aromas of seasoned fish, aged wines, succulent meat, and crisp fruit.

            She stood at his arm the entire evening, conversing with celebrated classical vocalists, acclaimed doctors, talented musicians, esteemed lawyers, famous dancers, and genius inventors. They were brilliant, wonderful people, all smiling and congratulating her, though for what, she remained in the dark. Many a fine-looking man kissed her hand and many a fine lady complimented her ensemble. She was lulled into a quiet peace, away from the jungle and the moonlight.

            Hours into the night, Hannibal pulled her away from the guests to kiss her softly and ask a favor, kissing her over and over with his sharp teeth until she said yes. She had to promise, he said, marking the back of her neck with a bite as confirmation.

            _You have to promise to stay through dinner_.

            Of course. She could do that. If he kept kissing her, of course she could do that. Even if not, did she have a choice?

            He broke away from her, settling himself at the head of the table, which had only recently appeared in the space. He called a toast, raising his glass. He toasted to her, the blue blossom of the ball. He toasted to the guests, who were all grand, wonderful people. He toasted to the night, which was cool and smooth.

            He toasted to their blood.

            He toasted to the claws.

            He toasted the feast.

            He let his wine spill to the table as their throats were split, blood spilling to their laps. The wild things stood tall over the scene, muzzles and paws stained and red, smiles greedy. The silver dish containers popped open, displaying the heads of the guests who once sat living, now sat decapitated, bodies limp and lifeless.

            She screamed.

            Knocking over her chair, Alana flew from the scene, ducking under the wild things and scrambling into the brush. The branches snapped at her back, her face, her bare shoulders, but she kept running. The rocks cut her bare feet, but she kept running.

            The howls rose above the roar of blood in her ears, hoofs and paws and claws stomping across the jungle floor. They would catch her.

            They would catch her

            They would catch her.

            She raced through a stream, over a log, down a steep ditch, always running, running, trying to escape the world of red cloaking her. Their cries died down the faster she went until she was drenched in silence. Back to a silver-barked tree, she slid down into the undergrowth, laying flat against the earth.

            The shadow that stalked her was not a beast, not in form. He was a beast, but a beast in mind. He was a wolf, a hungry, cunning wolf. He found her effortlessly, pulling her up by her hair. “You made a promise.”

            She couldn’t find her voice, shocked white with terror.

            “You broke that promise, love.”

            “You slaughtered the guests.”

            “A small price, I would say, to repay mother earth for her gifts. They were greedy, lusting animals; I merely brought them to slaughter.”

            “You’re a monster.”

            “Don’t say such childish things, Alana. I am an artist, a purifier. They were imperfections and needed to be disposed.”

            “Am I an imperfection too? Are you going to slaughter me?”

            “That’s ridiculous. You are not an imperfection.”

            “I need to leave, I need to wake up.”

            He clicked his tongue, pulling her into an iron grip. “You need do no such thing.” He stroked her hair gently.

            She barely felt the knife slicing straight into her heart.

            “Please don’t go—I’ll eat you up—I love you so.”

 

            Alana awoke in a cold fear, limbs stuck and numb to her panic, ignoring her brain’s every command to move. She had apparently let out some volume of noise, for the bed beside her stirred. She nearly shrieked, wrenching the covers up to her chin. When had another person climbed into her bed?

            “Spare my eardrums, please.” The voice that emerged from the darkness was groggy and heavy with sleep. Another body sat up beside her, recently washed hair still damp and full of cowlicks. Olivey-hazel eyes gathered new depths in the faint light, becoming almost black pools of void. The planes of the face changed upon recognition of conscious state, and she knew the expression shifted from annoyed to concerned. “Is something the matter?”

            “Nothing, sorry,” she lied. Her voice came out dry and quivering, as though she were on the verge of tears. She may have been. The blackness of those eyes wouldn’t leave her mind, the dream sinking into her bones.

            “Are you certain? That was a piercing scream.”

            “Yes, you just frightened me. I forgot you slept over.”

            She could make out the frown in the dim light. “This is my bed. I invited _you_ over for dinner. Are you sure you are fine?”

            Dinner. Dinner where she ate…and…she felt sick. “I think I’m just tired.”

            A sigh, a shift in the mattress, a powerful arm curving around her waist. She held back a flinch at the contact and sucked in a breath as she was dragged toward a warm chest. The devil’s fingers played with her hair like they may with a knife or violin string. He kissed her gently, though with feigned or genuine affection, she couldn’t tell. “Sleep, then, and we’ll see if you’re more oriented in the morning.” She nodded, forehead brushing against his chin.

            But she didn’t sleep. She lay paralyzed in his grasp, jagged jigsaws forming in her head, evidence and information connecting like shaped blocks. All the clouds from her judgment washed off as the King of the Wild Things slumbered.

            She couldn’t close her eyes, not while she lay in the Ripper’s bed.

**Author's Note:**

> someone just comment sweet jesus please I feel like I've fucked up everyone horribly with this


End file.
